<h2>XIII</h2>
<p>And wilt thou have me fashion into speech<br/>
The love I bear thee, finding words enough,<br/>
And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough,<br/>
Between our faces, to cast light on each?—<br/>
I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach<br/>
My hand to hold my spirits so far off<br/>
From myself—me—that I should bring thee proof<br/>
In words, of love hid in me out of reach.<br/>
Nay, let the silence of my womanhood<br/>
Commend my woman-love to thy belief,—<br/>
Seeing that I stand unwon, however wooed,<br/>
And rend the garment of my life, in brief,<br/>
By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude,<br/>
Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief.</p>
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